


hearing secret harmonies

by couldaughter



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Gritty's Extended Family Of Eldritch Abominations, M/M, Pre-Slash, Sort of a Rivers of London Crossover if you tilt your head and squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2020-03-29 19:23:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19026337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/couldaughter/pseuds/couldaughter
Summary: “Sure, buddy,” says Nick. The lights keep bobbing around at eye level as he steadies Bob, wraps an arm around his waist and tries not to think about potential complications. “Uh, mind my asking what you’re doing on the wrong side of Columbus at witching hour?”“Witching,” Bob replies.





	hearing secret harmonies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [void_fish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/void_fish/gifts).



> more of a scene from an au that will Never Be Finished, but i thought some people out there might enjoy this last gasp before free agency breaks our collective hearts

Among the many other objective, ethical issues Nick has with being a police officer, the most pressing one at present is that he’s stuck on a stakeout at 1am, and his partner (an inconsiderate bastard at the best of times) has vanished into the mist to pick up coffee from the all-night diner two blocks over.

The mean streets of Columbus are quiet, though, and it’s giving Nick way too little mental stimulation. He’s caught himself in a yawn about half a dozen times since Dubi left, and it’s unlikely he’ll get less tired in the next couple hours.

Just as he’s considering the benefits of stabbing himself in the leg with a fork from a leftover takeout container, a loud bang echoes down the alleyway he's meant to be surveilling.

Nick pushes the driver's side door open so hard it ricochets. “Fuck,” says Nick, quietly but with great passion. “Fucking fuck.”

It didn’t sound like a gunshot, but it didn’t sound entirely innocuous either.

The beam of light his standard issue torch casts is swallowed whole by the darkness of the alley - Nick shivers and presses forward anyway. He’s never been a big fan of the dark, but that’s not the kind of thing you can admit at the academy. The hazing would’ve been even nastier.

About halfway down the alleyway, hand pressed to the wall for support. Nick stumbles sideways and barely catches himself on the brickwork, sending up a quick thank you to God for the driving gloves Dubi insists on keeping in the glove box ("It's right there in the name, Fligs, stop making that fucking face at me."). 

There is, as it turns out, a fuck off massive hole in the wall. This presents a problem to Nick, because protocol insists he wait for Dubi, and instinct insists that if he turns his back on that hole for longer than a millisecond he’s gonna get eaten by a fucking xenomorph.

A flare of light interrupts his train of thought, casting long and interesting shadows against the opposite wall and more or less guaranteeing that Nick is gonna run into the fuck off massive hole, protocol or not. The scream that follows seals the deal; Nick’s through the hole and calling Dubi with his free hand, right resting on his sidearm, unwilling to draw.

“Police!” he calls into the cavernous space - his survey of the area a few days ago had the place down as a warehouse, and the echo certainly backs it up. His own voice comes back to him over and over as he steps carefully around the debris of a hundred rough sleepers of time gone by, the only sound besides his footsteps and a persistent, quiet rasp on the edge of silence.

Nick squints in the direction of the rasp - broken ribs, he thinks - and barely holds back a string of swear words when he spots the guy on the floor.

“Bob?”

Bob - Officer Bobrovsky really, but nobody’s called him that since about ten seconds after he arrived in the bullpen - is hunched against a crate, one hand clutching his ribs and the other pressed flat into the floor, hard enough Nick could’ve sworn he saw grooves beneath his fingertips.

Of course, Nick could only see that because of the floating orbs of light circling Bob’s head, which were - well, Nick was just gonna ignore those for the time being.

“Oh, hello, Nick,” says Bob, completely level. His breath rasped out again and he coughed once, sharp, before continuing. “Give me a hand up, please?”

“Sure, buddy,” says Nick. The lights keep bobbing around at eye level as he steadies Bob, wraps an arm around his waist and tries not to think about potential complications. “Uh, mind my asking what you’re doing on the wrong side of Columbus at witching hour?”

“Witching,” Bob replies. He nods towards the wall. 

There is… something, lying against it.

“I swear to you Bob, if you came to a warehouse at one in the morning to murder Gritty…”

The thing doesn’t look that much like the Flyers mascot, but Nick knows Bob has a complicated history with the entire city of Philadelphia. It wouldn't be totally outside the realm of possibility if it weren't for the fact that, oh, right, monsters _weren’t real_.

“Let’s talk about it in the morning,” says Nick. “Dubi’s gonna absolutely ream me out when we get back to the car.”

“Oh, god,” Bob sighs. “Did not know Dubinsky was out tonight.”

Bob was friends with Anisimov, Nick knew, but that apparently had not yet extended to Anisimov’s work husband. The guy was a lot to deal with when you’d just been transferred for mental health reasons - that was the whisper, anyway.

Nick had a suspicion it might be to do with the magic, though. Or the vigilante Gritty killing. Or, reasonably, both. 

“Tough luck, Bob,” he replies. “You wanna, uh, send a couple more lights out so I can actually see where the hell we’re going?”

“If you insist,” says Bob. He whispers something, low and Russian, and flexes his fingers against Nick’s shoulder. 

A swarm of fireflies bursts to life above them, glowing treasure-gold and beautiful in the cold night air.

Nick really goddamn hopes he’s not dreaming. Not least because the feeling of Bob resting his cheek on Nick’s shoulder is kind of, maybe, perhaps, the kind of thing he dreams about more than he’d like to admit.

**Author's Note:**

> i think i may literally never escape this fandom but hey, when bob leaves i guess half my investment will evaporate ( :(((((((((( ) 
> 
> i wrote this a few months ago for jay and am now resurrecting it from my gdrive so it can be properly formatted and tagged &c, and definitely not just because i am starved for brainpower atm to the point that i haven't written Anything in the past two weeks.
> 
> title from a kind of magic by queen


End file.
